Survivor's Guilt
by Moiranna
Summary: The hard part about losing a loved one isn't that they're dead. Well, that's a part of it, but not the main reason. It's that you are alive, and they're not.


**Author: **Moiranna  
**Beta**: -  
**Title: **Survivor's guilt  
**Theme**: #13 - Death´  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Realm: **Devil May Cry  
**Pairing: **-  
**Characters:** Dante, Lady, Vergil  
**Genre: **Gen/Tragedy**  
****Warnings: **Violence, language  
**Word-count**: 752  
**Summary:** Survivor's guilt is the medical term for it. Personally? I just hated him.  
**Dedication**: To my latest stalk- hrrrm, _fan_, **Poison'd**, who commented me in a way that encouraged me to actually finish writing a piece.  
**Notes: **As so many other pieces this was started in the middle of the night. Finished drabbling an hour ago. Not quite pleased, but I liked the beginning and made myself finish it. Tempus shifts are written with a purpose.  
Written in memoriam of a friend of mine who committed suicide.  
Cookies for those who can spot the Ice Age reference.

* * *

The hard part about losing a loved one isn't that they're dead. Well, that's a part of it, but not the main reason. It's that you're alive, and they're not.

It'll come back and haunt your ass every single waking moment, reminding you that you're alive and that as a matter of fact, he's not. That in fact, you are the one who ended his life. Makes you question just why he wasn't the faster and stronger one, after all, hadn't he always beaten your sorry ass? Been the annoying smartass brother that you just wanted to pepper full of bullets? (And on several occasions did, one might add.)

Technically, you'll remember with a chuckle holding no warmth in those hours in the dead of night when you've woken up yet again from that never-ending nightmare, _you_ were the smartass brother who would never leave him alone, who just couldn't let go. You were that gooey sticky stuff that kept it all together, even when he wanted you to let go.

In the end there are only two options. Either deal with it or put a bullet to your head. Simple as that. Or well, _theoretically_ it's simple as hell, just pick and choose, but in reality… well, life's always been a bitch. Those little pesky things called emotions and memories.

Like those times when you were young, before "the Incident" that never was mentioned again but you know all too well started all of the hatred. Playing out in the snow, building a snowman together until you grew bored and threw a snowball into his unsuspecting face, grinning all too wide, so very _very_ smug. Then cursing like a madman because he got pissed off and decided that payback was all too sweet.

Or those times when you shoved a sword down one another's throat because you hate one another to death. Because you blame one another for the death of mom. Because you never really got along. Because who the hell needs a reason when you both are pretty much immortal?

No, not immortal, but close. Takes a hell of a lot to kill someone with demonic blood running in their veins.

Alcohol feels so good when those memories come to you, that bottle of Jack next to the bed all too tempting. Burning it all down until nothing but an empty bottle remains and your mind is fuzzy and sleep within close reach.

Killing is also good. Demons, demons and more demons. All wanting to fight you as if lining up on some fucking Easter parade.

But it's not enough. All it does is leave you empty, drained and falling down yet again onto bed, not bothering undressing before snoring away. Those nights you can sleep without the booze, or well, _moderately_ so.

Your friends try to help. Lady even went as far as telling him to go to a shrink. That they're there, it helps, even if you're tempted to tell Lady to shove it. Just shaking your head and telling her that her usual suggestion of wanting to shoot him sounds nicer than that statement.

Not in the literal sense, of course. No plans of dying here. And maybe that's the real problem. A guilt for that you don't want to die. You just hate your brother to death, but killing him takes away the fun in hating his guts. Because he's supposed to be there so that you can exchange insults, shoving swords and bullets down the other's throat. Life just isn't any fun without him, but hell if you can live with him.

You realize slowly, as the days turn into weeks and weeks into months and so forth and so on, that the real reason for your mourning isn't necessarily because he's dead, but because he actually wasn't as strong as you always thought, and that you actually could kill him. He was never supposed to die. He was supposed to be the reason for your existence, well, save for killing demons and wooing the ladies, that your never-ending battle would be just, never-ending.

In the end you decide, to hell with it all. Gotta live when you can.

Holding that bottle to the sky, one final salute before throwing it away and moving on.

To Vergil. To hating your guts, even when you're in the grave. May you rot in hell. Give me a couple of hundred years, and I'll make your un-life a livin- errr, _whatever…_ I'll make your existence a nightmare.


End file.
